Chapter Text
The clock on the hotel room’s nightstand read 12:47 PM. An upscale sort of establishment, solid monochromes, the light of the numbers was thin and bright. Informative, not accusing.
The woman in the bed saw them, briefly, as she lifted her head with a mumble against sleep.
She turned inward and hit something heavy and cold. Eyes opening she sat up, and saw the body in bed beside her.
With a high gasp she leapt, backing against the wall, sheet clutched to her chest as she stared.
The lights were down low, but there was enough illumination to reacquaint herself with the features of her companion. Long black hair, splayed wildly against the bedcovers - head thrown back, body slightly arched. Dark eyes wide within pale face, and though they’d already gone blank and milky they seemed to look back as the woman stared at her. A fixed gaze that struck right through - all-seeing, accusing; like something out of a horror movie.
“No,” the living woman gasped again; frightened denial. “N-no…”
Reflexively she reached, then snatched hand back with a whimper. Even with open-casket funerals, she’d never before seen someone so clearly dead .
Panic set in. In fumbling motions she rapidly gathered her things.
The hotel was in a quieter part of Manhattan, but Manhattan it was still; she only walked half a block before finding a cab.
She shut the door behind her tight as she slid into the backseat - redressed but disheveled. Her hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
“How’s your day goin’,” the cabbie asked, attempting smalltalk.
“Not well - obviously,” she snapped in a breathy sort of way.
“All right lady, geeze! Sorry for askin’. Where to, then?”
It took her a second, gulping air.
“Take me to the nearest police station.”
The cabbie hadn’t turned to look backward but she saw his shoulders stiffen. “A police station?”
“Yes, ” she insisted. Still breathy, still shaking. “And hurry! I need to report a crime.”
The Midtown police precinct looked about as typical as expected, right down to the stark lights and color of the linoleum.
Even early afternoon on a weekday it was busy. They’d brought her to a desk without regard for privacy or nearby noise.
She kept heels planted where she sat in a hard chair. Knees together, palms against her thighs.
She’d finger-combed her hair on the ride over. Her eye makeup was beyond saving, but halfheartedly she’d attempted fixing her lipliner.
The pair of detectives she’d spoken to were nondescript and nearly identical. White men, average height and build, in pale shirtsleeves and dark ties. Both had mustaches; one was bald. She’d be hard-pressed to describe them in detail. Although she’d recognize them again if she saw them, just as she’d recall their names. She’d trained to remember faces and names.
“Just a few more questions to make sure we have all the details. Now after seeing the body, did you touch it? Attempt any life-saving measures?”
“No. I-I mean…my h-hand brushed her. After that, no. I stayed away. Her skin felt cold. It was…obvious she was dead.”
Expressionless, he noted this down.
“Why didn’t you call 911 from your phone? Or contact the front desk?”
“I…” Choking, her eyes darted. “I-I woke up beside a dead body…I couldn’t understand what was happening. I could only think that I had to get away, that whoever had done it might still be in the room, or-” Lips trembled. “I had to get out of there.
“Once I was inside the cab, I felt…safe enough to think. That’s when I realized I needed to contact the police. I came straight here.”
He nodded, half-glancing from his notes. “All right. Well you did the right thing, then.”
She curled fingers tighter.
“How much longer do you think this will take?”
“My partner should be back any minute. Soon as he is, we’ll be able to-”
He stopped, spotting something she couldn’t see. Getting up he walked past her.
She turned her head. The other detective - the bald one - had returned. He didn’t look happy. After a moment’s harried conference, his partner didn’t look happy either.
They came back, standing in front of her. The detective she’d been speaking to had hands on his hips.
“So, my partner took a couple of uniformed officers over to the Beaumont. They went to the room you described. But they didn’t find a body.”
“ What? That – that can’t be-”
“Oh, it is.” Brisk before, now he was outright cool. “There wasn’t a body in the bed there. No sign of one in that room.”
Her head spun for the second time that day. “I don't understand. Maybe…maybe I remembered the room number wrong-”
“You see, we already thought of that,” the other detective interrupted. “We got permission from the hotel staff to check the other rooms as well. Not a single one contained a dead woman.”
No effort at keeping irritation concealed.
“We spent a lot of time looking, you realize. Not to mention inconveniencing the staff; the other guests.”
Her head shook, dazed. “I was just there. Could someone have already-”
“Miss Sheridan.” The first man commented, “You wouldn’t happen to be related to Andrew Sheridan, would you? The financial mogul?”
She tried keeping her lower lip from jutting, as it did when she was truly upset. “Yes. He’s my father.”
The detectives shared a blatant look. Unsurprised, and unimpressed.
“I know unlike some members of your family you don’t have prior history dealing with law enforcement,” the bald detective said archly. “But are you aware that filing a false police report is a crime?”
Her mouth parted in a silent gasp.
“You…you think that I’m making this up? Why would I?”
Her reaction had no impact. If anything they seemed more over and done.
The first detective stepped closer to her. He’d an unsympathetic conciliatory tone. “I don’t really think you want to push this much further, Miss Sheridan. I’m sure you’re ready to be on your way. Do you need us to call someone to come get you?”
She stared at them, trying to process. Wanting to protest.
Eventually she shook her head.
“No.” Her voice would’ve been angry, if it’d been greater than a hoarse whisper. “I’ll take care of that myself.”
She waited outside, unwilling to linger in there any longer. A pair of large designer shades located at the bottom of her bag, she’d put them on to hide her smudged mascara.
When the town car arrived she moved forward while her driver was still opening the door. “Thank you, Franklin.”
“Home, Ms. Sheridan?”
“No. Not yet.”
Settling into the backseat her stomach quaked with anxiety. She didn't know what to do - she knew who she was supposed to talk to, then.
“Take me to the firm.”
Pritchard, Brown, Ellis & Associates operated from a gleaming black building with front courtyard boasting a single modernist fountain. She proceeded to the elevator practically on autopilot; she knew the way so well.
Stride hurried as she exited onto the fourth floor, turning right then left. Head down, still concealed by the glasses, hair by now a mess of flyaways. Entering an office, wrung out with something like the tunnel vision of a runner when the end’s within sight.
“Is he in?” she demanded, startling the receptionist.
“Do you have an appointment, Ms. Sheridan?”
“No, but…is he in?”
“He is, but-”
The receptionist half-rose to stop her - but she turned, pushed through the inner door. Her heart pounding; hands beginning to shake, again.
The well-dressed older man inside was talking on speakerphone. He shot a look at her entry, first puzzled then with sharper gaze as he processed her state. He apologized to his conversation partner, promising to call them back, then hung up.
“Nicolette?” Rising from his desk he quickly moved towards her. Behind the mask of composure his bearded face was usually, she could see attentive concern. “What is it?”
Unsure, at once, how to begin - her eyes dropped to the necktie tucked within his vest. Blue today; bright and icy blue.
It made her think of the paleness leaching into the dead woman’s lips.
She breathed in a strangled sound.
“Mr. Barba.” Reached hand to her family’s attorney, beseeching. “I’m sorry, I…I didn’t know where else to go.”
*
Rafael had been representing the Sheridan clan’s interests for the past three years; it was hardly his first conference with Andrew Sheridan’s only daughter.
Since his entire career involved dealing with people on the worst days of their lives, he was well-versed meeting those under duress. Nicolette was no exception: at times he’d seen her flighty, or overwhelmed.
He had never seen her like this.
After sitting her down and having his assistant bring a glass of water, he’d run through the day’s highlights efficiently as he could - no pushing, but he needed an early idea what he was dealing with. Once he’d the gist and could start formulating they went through it again, this time coaxing out details.
Nicolette answered questions quickly, to the point. She knew the drill in talking to counsel.
How to talk to someone paid to solve her family’s problems.
Glass empty now she still held it perfunctorily in both hands; her grip just a fraction too tight. He let her stay that way a moment, his mind working.
It was a story nearly as outlandish as it was unfortunate. As an attorney his job was believing his client - being a good attorney meant having a keen eye for where things didn’t add up.
Nicolette wasn’t either of her brothers, though. Or her uncle; or god forbid, her cousin. Like most heiresses, in his experience, she’d been raised for obedience.
“Since there’s an accurate timeline, we’ll be able to confirm the officers assigned to you were on-duty from their roster,” he stated aloud. “We might be able to find the cabbie as well. Further confirmation. There’s no one else you spoke to that you can recall? Not at the hotel bar, on your way to the room, or at any time after?”
She’d taken the sunglasses off, leaving her wide-eyed and trembling. “No.”
“All right.” He went into decisive action. Plucking the drinking glass away with offhand care, he helped her to stand. “We’re going to go through what happened one last time - I’ll walk you through how to phrase, then we’ll document it for the record. Is your driver still here?”
“Yes.”
“Send him to get you a change of clothes. What you have on now needs to be bagged. With your permission, when you’ve undressed my assistant will photograph your physical state; any marks or injuries. Are there any injuries?”
“No. The sex was…good, but it wasn’t…”
That vaguely embarrassed sentence wasn't going anywhere so he continued over her: “Good. Then there's nothing to be misconstrued. We’ll collect a blood sample also, to prove you weren’t under the influence. You only had the one drink at the bar?”
“Yes. Just one.” Almost annoyed: “You know that I don’t do-”
“Of course. But there's a good chance at some point somebody who doesn’t know you so well will be asking.”
Dropping brusqueness, he gave a reassuring touch to her shoulder.
“I know this has been a long day for you, Nicolette. But you’re nearly through.”
“Thank you…s-so much, Mr. Barba. I wasn’t sure what-” When she blinked this time her eyes were watery. “What happens next? Those police officers, they made it sound as if they’d try to arrest me. Can they do that?”
“Technically yes, when they believe someone is lying. But a first-time offense, second degree at most, I doubt it’d get all the way to court. Worst case would be a fine; even for that they’d need to prove either recklessness or intent.” Breezing past legal explanations he forced a smile. “The point is, you don’t need to worry about that now.”
She shook her head, disoriented. “So what, then? Will you be calling them yourself?”
Rafael's smile dropped. Subtly he inhaled.
“No. I won’t be contacting the police. And neither will you.”
“But-”
“You reported the incident. Any failure to follow up is on them. Far as civic duty goes, you’re covered. And we’ll be taking steps to preserve everything for whenever there does become an active investigation. At this time, there’s no need to pursue the matter further.”
He’d weighed this heavily. His experience as both a prosecutor and a defense attorney said it was typically in someone’s best interest to have as little interaction with law enforcement as possible.
His client was cleared of obligation by actions she’d taken already, he determined.
Now it was solely his job to act in her favor.
The advice he gave was designed for that.
“Trust me,” he declared. “In that regard, there’s nothing more that needs done.”
* TWO WEEKS LATER *
The alarm clock on the nightstand read 7:15 AM. In the sun pouring through the gap in the curtains, the numbers were searing red. Unmitigated; unforgiving.
Rafael glanced at them and pressed lips together, stifling a groan.
He threw his head back, gazing at the ceiling a second, before turning inward.
The sheets and covers beside him were disturbed, still warm - but empty.
He sat up. Finding the other man - toned, bronze skin, wavy hair just long enough to fall into his eyes, and one of the most perfect smiles he’d ever seen - halfway across the room, gathering his clothes.
“Good morning,” Rafael offered.
“Morning,” came the pleasant reply. “You looked so peaceful, I didn’t want to wake you.”
“You didn’t.” Glanced at the clock again, palming it to switch off the alarm. “I’m normally up around now to get ready for work.”
“Oooh, yikes. The only reason I’d get up this early usually is to squeeze in an extra session of yoga. Wall Street hours, huh?”
“I’m a lawyer, actually.” His brow furrowed. He knew he’d mentioned that last night.
The other man didn’t seem to notice the correction. “Is it alright if I use your shower?”
“No, that’s fine.” He rested arms across his knees. “If you wanted to stay for breakfast, I could whip something up. Nothing fancy but-”
“Aw, you’re sweet. But no, I’ve gotta run. I need to get back to my place before my shift starts this afternoon.”
“All right.”
Before heading into the bathroom the man threw him a chipper glance.
“This was fun. I’m not a regular at that club, but I probably stop in like once a month. Maybe we could do this again sometime.”
“Maybe,” he replied.
Annoyed over what he recognized as the quiet sink of disappointment.
Not like it’d been a real date anyway. Expectations were clear from the start - sure, maybe it could’ve led to more. But not enough of a chance to get his hopes up.
And he hadn’t. Of course.
This guy did yoga , for one. And still worked a job with an afternoon shift. Rafael hadn’t even gotten his last name. And well, he really was too young for him - in the dim barroom it’d been easier to pretend.
By harsh light of day it was a different story.
Alone in short order, he went about his morning routine. Shower, quick breakfast, get dressed.
He turned the TV onto the news while he handled the finishing touches.
He was only half-listening when, on his last sips of coffee, the footage cut live to somewhere downtown. The camera set up across from an alleyway that was taped-off and full of personnel - an active crime scene.
“...where late last night locals discovered the body of an unknown woman: found naked, wrapped in a bedsheet. Police are withholding details pending identification. Witnesses describe her as being approximately early to mid-twenties, possibly of Asian ethnicity. It’s believed at this time the death is not of natural causes.”
Picking up a pen he began jotting things on a notepad.
Ever since Nicolette Sheridan burst panicking into his office, he’d been keeping a wary eye out. The dumpsite wasn’t far from the Beaumont hotel, and the general description seemed right.
Then the reporter said something that made his pulse jolt in a way nothing to do with his caffeine intake.
“Official sources have confirmed that the case is being handed over to Manhattan’s 16th precinct Special Victims Unit, to continue the investigation.”
Rafael set down the pen. A sour frown twisted across his face.
“Well,” he said to himself tersely, “here we go.”